Total Recall (11 page)

He boarded another train, trying to make it difficult for the goons to trace his route. But he couldn’t do this forever; he needed to get into some other region. For that he needed money.

He paused at a money vendor near the end of the subway line and got as much cash as he dared: enough to pay for a plane to another continent. The transaction would be traced, and in minutes the goons would be on his tail again; that was why they hadn’t cut off his ID card already. But though he lacked the deadly expertise of his hidden self, he did have some native cunning. Instead of going to the airport, he caught the next train back toward the center of town, and rode almost to where he had started. That should catch them by surprise. He hoped. They might figure that he wasn’t counting on the ID tracer, and was innocently going his way, and wouldn’t do anything unpredictable. He hoped again.

He got off and took an escalator up. He emerged from an archway marked
SUBWAY
onto the ground floor of an ancient 1980s shopping mall which had degenerated into a barrio street scene, complete with bars, flophouses, pool halls, pawnshops, and massage parlors. The mall was crowded with kids on skateboards and bikes, and there were even bums sleeping in doorways. It was like stepping into the past, and he almost felt nostalgia. Life must have been simpler before the planets were colonized!

This was the ideal place to hide. He spied a fleabag hotel across the mall. Cash would be accepted there without question, and he wouldn’t have to show his ID. He’d be able to rest, and wash out his shirt, or maybe pick up other clothing at a secondhand outlet. He was catching on to survival as an anonymous fugitive.

The coast was clear, as it were. He resumed progress and entered the hotel.

Helm drove the car rapidly through the rainy streets.

“Hey, man,” he said. “I bet you’re glad Lori’s off
that
case.” Richter’s jaw tensed, but he kept his eyes on the tracking device.

“It’s just a job,” he said shortly.

“Well, I sure wouldn’t want Quaid porking
my
girl.”

Richter snarled. His hand shot out and he grabbed Helm’s ear, twisting it painfully. The car swerved. “You’re saying she
liked
it? Is
that
what you’re trying to say?”

Helm struggled to control the car and to avoid having his ear ripped from his head. “No, no, of course not!” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m sure she hated every minute!”

Richter gave Helm’s ear another cruel twist and then released it. Flushed, he turned his attention back to the tracking device, which zoomed to a more detailed map section. “Circle twenty-eight. Top level,” he said without expression. And then he smiled. The old Galleria . . . Of course. Quaid thought he could hide by dodging back into the slum.

“Know something?” he asked Helm. “I think he hasn’t caught on that he’s bugged.” But he was, all right. Indeed, it had been that bug that first alerted them to Quaid’s visit to Rekall. The alarm had sounded when the man had gone off his normal route, and they had made a quick trip there to question the Rekall staff and dispatch them.

Helm skidded the car around a corner, keeping his eyes on the road and rubbing his ear.

Quaid went to his hotel room. It was about what he had expected, which wasn’t much. It was separated from other chambers mainly by plasterboard. If he cared to listen, he could hear what was going on in nearby compartments: the clinking of glasses, a shrill argument, an all-night poker game, the thudding of heavy sex, and plenty of video noise. That made this the perfect place to hide in.

But he had no sooner closed the dirty curtains at the window than the phone rang. He didn’t answer. But it bothered him: why should anyone be calling here? Was it for last night’s tenant? In which case maybe he’d better answer it, and try to pretend to be that man, in that way concealing his own presence. Still—

On the fourth ring he stepped to the side of the screen so he couldn’t be seen and hit the answer button. He didn’t speak. If they asked for a name, he’d use that name. He peered slantwise at the screen, staying clear of its pickup.

All it showed was a man’s hand blocking the lens. Well, that was another way to do it!

“If you want to live, don’t hang up,” a gruff male voice said.

This didn’t sound like a wrong number! Quaid stood still, not hanging up, but also not speaking.

“They’ve got you bugged,” the caller said. “And they’ll be busting down the door in about three minutes unless you do exactly what I say.”

Quaid, staying clear of the pickup, searched his clothes for the bug. Like a damned fool, he had never thought of that!

“Don’t bother looking. It’s in your skull.”

Quaid looked around, spooked. “Who are you?” His identity was obviously no secret from this caller.

“Never mind. Wet a towel and wrap it around your head. That’ll muffle the signal. It’s not a strong one.”

“How’d you find me?” He had to assume that this was a friend and not an enemy. Why should an enemy warn him?

“I’d advise you to hurry.”

Quaid saw the sink on the other side of the room. He walked in front of the videophone to get there. There seemed to be no point in hiding now.

“That’ll buy you some time,” the caller continued approvingly. “They won’t be able to pinpoint you.”

Quaid felt like a fool, but he wetted a large towel and began to wrap it around his head. He managed to form a clumsy turban, though it dripped down the back of his neck.

Helm guided the car, homing in on the signal generated by Quaid’s bug. The tracking device changed from a detailed map to a general map of the area. The blinking light grew dim.

Richier stared. “Shit!”

“What is it?” Helm asked.

Richter fiddled with the tracking device and whacked it a few times. “We lost him!” How the hell? Maybe he was taking a shower. Richter knew that water could mess up the signal. He clenched his fists in his lap. He wasn’t a patient man by nature, but he could learn. Quaid couldn’t stay in the shower all night, and when he came out . . .

Helm kept driving.

Quaid rewrapped the wet towel, making a better turban, but it still dripped down his neck.

“That’s good enough,” the caller said. “Now look out the window.”

Quaid went to the window and cautiously pulled aside the curtain. He peeked outside. This was no skyscraper; he was not far from the pavement.

“See the phone booth by the bar?” the caller inquired from behind him.

He looked across the limited landscape and located the bar, then the booth. A mustachioed soldier of fortune was looking right back at him, holding up a doctor’s satchel.

“This is the bag you gave to me,” the soldier said.

“
I
gave to you?”

“I’m leaving it in the booth,” the soldier continued. “Come get it and keep moving.”

Quaid saw the man begin to hang up. “Wait!”

The soldier paused. It was evident that he wanted to keep moving, too. “What?” he asked impatiently.

“Who are you?” He needed to know the name of this mysterious ally. Everyone he had trusted had turned against him. This man might be the only friend he had left. Quaid had to know who he was.

The soldier hesitated, then spoke abruptly. “We were buddies in the Agency back on Mars. You asked me to find you if you disappeared. So here I am. Good-bye.”

“Wait!” Quaid said desperately. “What was I doing on Mars?” But the phone had gone dead and the soldier had left the booth. Quaid pounded the window-sill in frustration as he watched the man walk quickly away. Yet what he had told Quaid was invaluable. If he had belonged to the Agency, and left it—

But he had no time for conjecture now. He dashed out of the hotel room, holding the wobbly turban on his head.

Richter and Helm circled the mall in the car. The rain continued unabated, stinking worse than ever. Richter banged the tracking device, but it didn’t help. He’s here, Richter thought. I can smell him. He whacked the device again. The interference continued.

Helm made no comment. He just kept driving.

Quaid ran out of the hotel. He looked for the soldier of fortune, but the man was gone. Damn it! Maybe the stranger had saved his life—and maybe he hadn’t. Could he trust him? Suppose he had been safe in the hotel room, and this had smoked him out to where the goons could gun him down? That didn’t seem to make a lot of sense, but then very little of the past day did.

But he was forgetting the satchel. Maybe that would answer some of his questions. He started for the phone booth and was dismayed to find that an old lady had beaten him to it. She had the satchel in her hand.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “That’s mine.”

The old lady regarded him sourly. “I don’t see your name on it,” she snapped.

Quaid took hold of the satchel and pulled it gently. “Someone left it for me.”

The little old lady refused to relinquish the bag. “Let go!” she hollered.

Quaid pulled a bit harder. “Please, ma’am. I need it.”

“Find your own bag!” she replied, clutching the satchel to her chest with all her strength. “You should be ashamed of yourself, you big bully!” A few bystanders had gathered, to enjoy the free entertainment.

Quaid was at a loss. He didn’t want to hurt the woman, but he needed that bag. He jerked it forcefully from her grip, nearly losing his turban in the process.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he apologized. “I’m sorry.” He turned on his heels and ran. The little old lady’s voice echoed after him.

“Fuck you, asshole!”

From a doorway, the soldier of fortune watched. He held his breath during Quaid’s awkward struggle with the elderly woman, and sighed with relief when Quaid gained the bag and ran off. They had been through a lot together, on Mars and Earth both, and the man who was now known as Quaid had saved his life more than once. In fact, it had been that man who had first brought him into the Agency. At the moment, the soldier wasn’t sure whether that had been a blessing or a curse.

He thought of how the Agency had changed since he had been recruited. It had originally been formed to oversee the diverse intelligence-gathering groups of the Northern Bloc. Its mission was to keep the spooks in line and insure that they did not become too powerful for the Northern Bloc government to handle.

Then Vilos Cohaagen had been appointed Head of the Agency. Under his leadership, the Agency had not only acted as watchdog on the other groups, but had gradually absorbed them. The cooperation it received from a wide variety of law enforcement bureaus was deceptive. They cooperated with the Agency because, to a greater extent than anyone imagined, they were the Agency. Cohaagen had the imagination to see what could be done with such a network and, more important, he had the political savvy to make it grow invisibly. No one questioned his actions because no one noticed them. By the time they realized what he’d done, it was too late.

Cohaagen had used the Agency to gather a vast amount of dirt on key people in government. His file on the Chairman was especially damaging. When the time was ripe, he had used the dirt to win his appointment as Mars Colony Administrator. Cohaagen knew that whoever controlled the Martian turbinium mines controlled the Northern Bloc,
all
of the Northern Bloc, not just a few powerful politicians. Without turbinium to fuel their weapons, the Northern Bloc would be forced to surrender.

The Chairman knew this too, but he also knew that Cohaagen would have to resign from the Agency in order to take up his post on Mars. The Chairman thought that by sending Cohaagen to Mars and naming a successor to head the Agency, he would regain control of it and neutralize Cohaagen.

The fool. The Agency’s new leader had been Cohaagen’s puppet. For all intents and purposes, it was still under Cohaagen’s control. And now the turbinium mines were his, as well.

As long as he could hold them. The soldier of fortune smiled. Cohaagen might be an effective Agency Head, but he knew nothing about running a colony. He was so intent on political intrigue that he ignored the welfare of the people on Mars, especially those who worked in the mines. When they protested their deteriorating living conditions, he cracked down on them without mercy. But his terror-tactics were backfiring, creating the revolution that now threatened to halt turbinium production and undermine Cohaagen’s quest for power.

The soldier of fortune shook his head. He was not a politician. He had no interest in matters of state. But, unlike many of the thugs who had recently been recruited, he did have a strong sense of personal honor. The things Cohaagen had ordered him to do to suppress the revolt on Mars were not honorable. He was a skilled professional, not a petty sadist. He wanted out of the Agency and he wanted out fast.

His duty to the man called Quaid done, he could continue to effect his carefully planned disappearance. He had made a promise and he had kept it, at great personal risk. Now he could lose himself again, his promise fulfilled. He sauntered casually into a side street, trying to act like an ordinary pedestrian, but he was nervous. He knew that the Agency was after his friend and would stop at nothing to nail him. He had helped a buddy, as he knew he must, but if the act were ever discovered, it would alert the Agency and put his own disappearance in jeopardy. That was why he had to conceal his identity; the less known about him, the better.

Cruising around the Galleria, Helm saw someone who looked familiar. He nudged Richter and pointed. Richter, too, recognized the man. His eyes condensed to points. What the hell was Stevens doing here? Hadn’t he and the quarry been buddies back on Mars? Were they in on this little game together? Richter would soon find out.

Helms cut the car into a parking space. Swiftly and silently they got out, stalking the man.

Stevens left the inner circle of the mall, his eyes darting nervously into the dimness before him. He turned his head briefly to see if he was being followed—and walked straight into the arms of Richter and Helm. Helm grabbed him and smashed his head against a wall, then landed a few solid kicks to his ribs and kidneys. Stevens slumped on the sidewalk.